


The Blackest Day

by sunnyeclipses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyeclipses/pseuds/sunnyeclipses
Summary: Sectumsemprafor enemies, Harry thinks. And Malfoy crashes to the ground with a soft thud.Draco bleeds to death in the Slytherin bathrooms, and Harry struggles to cope with what he has done.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 20
Kudos: 126





	The Blackest Day

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to "The Blackest Day" by Lana Del Rey in the shower and was thinking why don't I just torture myself by writing my worst nightmare in fic form. So here we are! Listen to the song with this fic if you want to get a good cry on. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : None of these characters or concepts are mine, everything belongs to JK Rowling/Bloomsbury/Others. This is all in good fun (or sadness). 
> 
> **Content Warning** : This fic is a hard one to get through, in my opinion. There's a huge death and a lot of guilt and depression that goes along with it. There are also suicidal thoughts and graphic depictions of violence in the first half of this one-shot. I tried to make sure I had everything tagged, but just double check that you're in the right place to read about these things!
> 
> I also literally just wrote this and posted it so all mistakes/inconsistencies are my own. "No beta we die like men" really applied here.

_Sectumsempra_ for enemies, Harry thinks. And Malfoy crashes to the ground with a soft thud. 

Suddenly the room goes quiet. The sounds of angry hexes seem like a memory from a distant past, and he cannot hear much of anything. Ragged breaths from Malfoy emerge from the depths of the room. Harry is terrified to round the corner, he is so terrified. 

He walks forward slowly, his shoes making contact with the floor beneath him. He’s noticed the bathroom is flooding. The loudest sound in the room is Harry’s heart hammering away frantically in his chest. He wouldn’t be surprised if it gave out right then and there. But he reaches the corner and flattens his back to the wall, forcing a deep breath before coming out from behind it. 

Cherry colored water puddles in the middle of the room, converging around a nearly lifeless body. It would be hard to tell if Malfoy was alive if he wasn’t struggling to inhale with every passing second. 

Harry panics and wishes nothing more than to run; he’s already feeling suffocated by the room’s dark walls. But his legs carry him to the boy on the ground, almost involuntarily. He kneels into the rising water to grasp at Malfoy’s arms. There is so much blood, it covers Harry’s hands and clothes the instant he sits down. It leaks out of cuts that slash away mercilessly, and Malfoy screams with every wound that appears on his body. Harry wills them to stop; he casts _Finite_ more times than he can count. Something pricks at the edges of his eyes, and its only moments before tears stream relentlessly down his cheeks, and his eyes burn like a fire. 

“I’m _so_ sorry!” Harry cries, his body quivering with emotion and helplessness. He screams for help until his voice goes raw, but it is becoming clear that no one can hear him. 

Malfoy lies underneath him; his dress shirt bares no ounce of white anymore. It’s a deep and violent red that makes Harry’s face turn green. This is not happening, he firmly tells himself, but it really is. He rips the boy’s shirt open, exposing Malfoy’s naked chest. Harry delivers healing spells at the wounds and feels a glimmer of hope as they disappear. But the confidence is shattered when deeper gashes replace the one’s that Harry has taken away. Malfoy only cries harder. 

He realizes through gasping breaths that Malfoy is trying to say something and positions the boys head in his lap. He bears a resemblance to a beautiful statue of a Saint, crying out a river of blood. The sight makes Harry’s stomach curdle. 

“I don’t want to die, _please_ Harry” The worlds barely slip past his lips, his body is involuntarily convulsing beneath him with effort, it is trying so hard to keep him alive. Harry is casting every charm he can think of to stop the bleeding. Still, Malfoy’s skin is being infinitely divided by the cruel spell. 

“Please don’t die on me, Malfoy don’t you fucking dare die on me.” Harry is gripping blonde hair in one hand, and ceaselessly casting with the other. He only eventually realizes he should cast a Patronus to communicate and sends his stag to Snape. An unusual first thought. He wants to kill himself for reacting so slowly. 

Harry only gazes at the boy in his lap, tears blurring his vision. He can’t focus, this is _not_ happening. Malfoy suddenly looks so small in his grip. 

“I’m so scared, Harry,” Malfoy mumbles gently, life slipping quickly from his grasp. His head is lolling sickeningly to one side.

“No, no, no, no, Malfoy, you stay awake, you idiot!” Harry yells, hitting at his red cheeks and shaking his arms. Please God or Merlin, or anyone out there just let him live he deserves to live, Harry thinks. 

“I’m so scared,” Malfoy whimpers, but his eyes glaze over, and in an instant, it’s over. The bathroom is quiet once more. 

Malfoy’s torn body rests peacefully against the floor. 

Harry doesn’t dare move. He’s not sure how it happens, but he finds himself on the ground, letting the blood and water envelop him. His arms are curled possessively around Malfoy’s body. He will _never_ let go. Harry’s face buries deep into Malfoy’s neck, still feeling warmth emanating from his body and seeking out more of it. He doesn’t mind that blood begins to obscure his vision, Malfoy is alive, he has to be. He has no choice. Harry simply rocks against Malfoy’s body in a haze of disbelief. 

He fails to notice when Snape and McGonagall enter the bathroom. Snape is absolutely silent, but his face contorts painfully, his hand reaching up to clutch at his chest. McGonagall gasps audibly, and her wand clatters to the tiled floor. The professors attempt to reach the body but find themselves blocked by an invisible but resistant wall. Harry has cast a _Protego Maxima_ and has not bothered to notice it. His magic seems to be operating mechanically for him, as his brain turns to mush in his head. This is not happening right now. McGonagall bangs her fists against the shield charm, unable to pass through. 

Hermione and Ron are at the door, too, Harry notices. Hermione is crying, her face blotchy and red, stained by tears. Ron is ghostly white. When he sees them, Harry drops the shield unknowingly. He’s so tired, but his body still cries while his mind wanders elsewhere. He heaves dryly and finds his chest tightening against Malfoy’s. The blonde’s eyes are open and are staring into the distant ceiling. Harry does not know how he hasn’t noticed they are the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen in his life. 

McGonagall blocks the door, as a crowd begins gathering outside the bathroom, but allows his friends to stay inside. Hermione weeps silently into Ron’s arms. The silence is deafening, and no one dares to speak one word into existence. As if talking would solidify that this is real, this is happening. Harry allows a little surprise when Snape does not violently pull him from Draco’s body. The Professor crouches down next to their entangled figures. His hand on Harry’s back is strangely comforting. Harry knows they don’t move him for at least a half-hour before his eyes close droopily against Malfoy’s neck and his vision spots with black. He is unconscious in a matter of seconds.

–––

Harry’s eyes blink open wearily, and for one blissful second, he is unaware of where he is. What hits him first is the stark white walls that encircle him. The room is empty, and the walls are cushy, like pillows almost. He peers down to where he was sleeping. A blanket rests on the floor beside a cot before vanishing into oblivion. His head is throbbing, and his eyes hurt from the excess light. Where is he?

He pauses for a few minutes before peering out the small window but can only make out shapes and colors. Nothing too striking is identifiable. Before he can move back, a man opens the door, and he startles at Harry in the way. 

The man’s eyes widen, and he adjusts his healer robes uncomfortably before silently exiting from the way he came. Within seconds, multiple people enter the room in quick succession casting diagnostic spells and asking him questions. One shines wand light directly into his eyes, and he struggles to keep still. 

It’s only when they leave that he realizes what has happened. That it was not a terrible nightmare.

Grief and anger bubble up uncontrollably inside of him, and compete against one another for the focus of his mind. Harry weakly rests against one of the walls, sliding down miserably and burying his head between his knees. This is most certainly not happening. 

Someone is in front of him. 

Professor Dumbledore sits unobtrusively in front of Harry but does not speak. When he glances up and meets the older man’s eyes, his expression is impassive and unreadable. Harry isn’t quite sure what is going on, but something inside of him prevents him from asking. 

“Do you know why you are here, Harry?” Dumbledore asks him mildly but firmly. Still maintaining intense eye contact with the boy. 

“I do.” Harry manages, though his voice is hoarse as if it hasn’t been used in days. He wants to ask how long he has been at St. Mungo’s, but the words escape him once more. 

“You have been in this ward for a week.” Dumbledore offers as if he has read his mind. Harry isn’t all that surprised. 

“Okay,” He says slowly. He feels a hot burning sensation behind his cheeks and a tightening in his throat. He’ll cry later, he promises himself, but he has to get through this conversation first. “What’s going to happen to me?” 

“Take my hand, Harry.” The headmaster extends his arm out like an offer. 

Harry takes it. He feels himself whirling through both space and time, and lands roughly against a patch of grass. Being side-alonged has never been his favorite thing in the world, and Dumbledore’s version of it always has an especially harmful effect on his body.

Dumbledore is on his feet next to Harry but joins him in the grass before crossing his legs in front of him. “I’ve always thought the Great Lake was most beautiful at sunrise.” He reflects. 

Harry is too lost in thought to appreciate it much, but he does agree. A radiant sun rises over hills of foliage just across the way. And the lake lies nestled in the valley, reflecting pink sunshine at the sky. It is beautiful, Harry thinks. But reality comes crashing down around him in an instant. He’s crying now, though the headmaster just lets him, staring at an unknown object in the distance. When Harry has taken a breath and wiped his face, he turns his gaze at Dumbledore. 

“I should be in Azkaban.” He says forcefully, and with cold resolve. “I deserve to be there for my entire life.” 

“You did not know what that spell would do.” Dumbledore announces as though considering the matter. “I have informed the Wizengamot as such.” 

Harry gapes, what does that mean for him? 

“You were acting in self-defense.” Dumbledore continues, hardly disconcerted by Harry’s lack of response, “You will be placed under probation, but will undertake it as such within Hogwarts. You _will_ complete your year.” 

“Professor I don’t –” 

“You do not understand?” Dumbledore questions him, finally turning to look at Harry. “Aurors have combed through your memories, Harry. Draco Malfoy attempted to use the Cruciatus curse on you, and you were acting in self-defense. You have already been tried at the Wizengamot and found innocent. But you will be monitored, and you will not argue.”

Harry feels his breath catch in his throat and makes a choking noise. Hearing Malfoy’s name hurts more than he could have expected. Harry doesn’t even want Azkaban; he just wants to die. He thinks Dumbledore can probably sense that. 

Dumbledore stands, likely in preparation to apparate. Harry wants to rise too, but he cannot find the strength within him to even try. “Take care of yourself, Harry. Lean on your friends.”

He’s gone in, and instantly Harry is alone by the water. It is only a second before heaving sobs rip through his body. He sits again, with his head between his legs, and cries indelibly at the ground. When his tears dry out, and his eyes are sore, he’s on all fours dry heaving. He can tell there is not much in his body to throw up beside the potions administered at St. Mungo’s. Those are out of his digestive system in an instant. He lays like that for endless hours, covered in his own sick staring at the burning bright sky. The grief is washed away by a perpetual numbness, that almost feels even more restricting and inescapable. At least before, he was feeling something, feeling human. Now, he perceived as though he could do absolutely anything, and it wouldn’t matter. He seriously considers letting himself just drown in the lake, savoring the feeling of water in his lungs, but staves off the idea. He cannot picture being able to stand up for a while. Eventually, the sky fades down to a gentle orange, and then to black. He manages a few hours of sleep before he is being shaken lightly.

Hermione crouches over him, and Ron stands at a distance behind her. She vanishes the mess covering his clothes from St. Mungo’s and pulls him off the ground, he is surprised that he lets her. Harry stands in front of her as she wraps one of his robes around his shoulders. He finds himself gazing listlessly at the lake once more. If he ran, he might make it. But Hermione would hex him, or Ron would foolishly jump in after him. It wasn’t even worth it. They stayed silent on the walk back to the castle. 

The silence breaks when they reach the Gryffindor portrait, and Hermione mumbles the password. The fat lady stares intently down at Harry, worry, and fear written across her features. When they enter the common room, it is empty.

“Er – we asked no one to be down here.” Ron said, lightly scanning the room. “We just thought it would be easier.” 

Harry is grateful for that, but also entirely too depressed to care. He would have been a moron to think that no one would find out what had happened. It had been a week, surely it was announced to the school already. 

“Do you want to sit?” Hermione queried nervously, fiddling with her wand in her hand. “I could ask the house elves to bring us some tea and food, and we could just talk or –”

He interrupted Hermione quickly. “I think I’m going to go to bed.” 

Ron seemed as though he were going to mention that it was still early in the morning, but Hermione held him back. Harry disappeared quickly up the stairs, pushing past ogling Gryffindors on the way. 

When Harry reaches his bed, it's like sweet release. He immediately draws the bed curtains, casting a silencing charm that would ensure no one could hear in, and he could not hear out. In an instant, he releases a blood-curdling scream. He rests his forehead against the wood of the headboard and just yells and cries, alternating between the two and banging his head against the wall until it is bloody. Seeing blood itself makes him weepy again, so he heals the open wounds and decides maybe injuring himself isn't the right way to go about the grieving process. It's strangely cathartic, but disconcerting that he can't seem to naturally stop himself. Once he has grown tired of shouting, and his voice has become rusty and raw, he curls himself into his sheets. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Malfoy in the backs of his eyelids. He sees him smile and laugh and taunt him like he's still a real person. Harry was so scared. He is scared of himself for what he’s done, and he's afraid he will never be able to move on. 

Days pass before Harry actually leaves the comfort of his bed. Glasses of water magically appear by his nightstand and are quickly vanished after they have been drained. He suspects the house elves have something to do with it. Hermione was not allowed in the boy’s dormitory, so she had not managed to sufficiently drag him out. Ron seems almost scared of him in a sense. No one approaches his bed, and he doesn't care. 

One morning Harry wakes up with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s going to do something supremely stupid, and it will result in dire consequences. He figures that if the Wizengamot isn't going to exact punishment, he would have to take matters into his own hands. At least then he’d know he suffered, paid a fair price, for what he’d done. The idea that he's allowed to roam free throughout a school he had killed another student in was eating him alive. That it had been Malfoy, of all people. It seemed like there remains nothing left to live for anymore. He's too tired to fight a war that hasn't even started yet. 

Harry jumps out of bed, entirely too chipper. His housemates startle immediately, but no one makes any attempts to talk to him. Ron would have if he had been in the room, but Harry is grateful that he is not. He might have thought twice about his decision. He had known, from Sirius, that people didn’t know how to deal with other grieving people – it was like they were marked forever by the deaths that surrounded them, and nobody wanted to be a part of that. 

He didn’t bother to shower, or brush his teeth, or comb his hair. He realizes he hasn't done anything hygienic in the days that passed, but time was blurring together almost comfortingly. It felt consoling to know that the world went on without him. 

Harry reaches the top of the stairs faster than he expects to. But when he approaches the window, he pauses. He sits on the precipice, slinging his legs over the edge to just look out at a distance and let them hang below him. 

“You’re not going to off yourself, are you Potter?” 

Harry blanches, well that was exactly what he had planned to do. 

“Er -no?” It sounds like a question as he swivels his head back to meet the familiar voice behind him. 

Snape deigns to express any sense of empathy, but Harry is surprised when he takes a seat beside him by the window. Snape decidedly leaves his legs inside of the tower. 

“You’re rather impulsive. Like your father.” Snape tacks on, but there was no malice behind his words. It was merely observational. 

“I know.” Harry says. What had he even been thinking, making a snap decision so grave as this one?

“What would Granger and the Weasel have done if you left them like this?” Snape wonders aloud, gazing out toward the Quidditch Pitch, “hardly seems like something the noble Harry Potter would do. Leave the people he loves behind.” 

“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Harry admits guiltily, swinging one leg back inside of the tower. Just one, though. On any typical day, he would snipe at the Professor in front of him and storm away at any sense of confrontation. But this, quite obviously, isn't just an average day. “Draco is gone, and no one held me responsible.” He states it like the fact that it is. 

Snape sighs, and while it sounds disinterested, Harry just knows it is not. “It is so very Gryffindor of you to think that killing yourself would solve such a problem. Don’t you think that would be the coward’s way out?”

“I hadn’t really thought of that either.” 

“Draco is gone.” Snape amends, bowing his head a bit and allowing just the tiniest hint of sadness to crease the lines in his face. If one were not looking for it, they would never notice. “He was a good boy, a perfect one, really. He just grew up in the wrong circumstances.” 

Harry thinks he can understand that. 

“I killed him.” Harry feels tears prick at his eyes once more, but the last thing he wants is to cry in front of Snape. A part of him doesn't care much anymore either way. 

Snape gazes sharply at Harry. “I created the spell. It was my work that killed him.” 

Harry was shocked at the revelation but is unable to express it well. Instead, he wants to argue Snape’s statement. When he begins to open his mouth, Snape gives Harry a bruising glare. 

“Don’t even try, boy.” Snape picks at a thread on the wrist cuff of his robes. “I will concede that if you had called me sooner, I could have cast the counterspell. And Draco might have still been with us today.” 

Harry’s chest feels heavy with anguish. “D’you know what he said to me when he realized he was dying?” 

Snape shakes his head, and Harry continues, “He said, I’m scared. I hated him my whole life until he went and said that.” 

“He was only a boy. Just like you.” Snape spoke, softer than before. Softer than Harry had ever heard the man speak. 

“I will never forget this. Not until the day I die.” 

Snape began to stand, “Consider that the ultimate penance then. You can ruminate on this as much as you would like, and you will be serving a tremendous punishment for what you have done.” 

Harry had never appreciated Snape in his life, but at that moment, he was coming close. He's grateful to be spoken to like an adult. And be faced with the consequences of what he had caused rather than peppered with excuses and pardons. 

“I think I loved him.” Harry says suddenly, his own words catching him off guard. He feels quickly embarrassed at the revelation. 

Snape does not bother to fake surprise at all and merely offers, “There is always a fine line between love and hate. You, of all people, should know that.” He leaves the tower, black robes, and all billowing behind him. 

Harry climbs down from the ledge. 

He sleeps that night more soundly than he has recently, but his dreams are full of Draco. Harry pictures the scene in the bathroom, but in an alternate reality where Draco lives and lives and lives. He grows old, and he has children. He makes a life for himself. The dream shifts, and red blurs Harry’s vision. He yells for Draco, urging him to take his hand, but the boy disappears into the blackness.

–––

Harry stands at the top of the path that leads to Malfoy Manor. The day of the funeral was upon them, and Harry dressed in ill-fitting formal robes. He feels most certainly out of place. He was unsure why he had been invited, and even more uncertain as to why he had chosen to attend but felt as though it would be spineless to avoid facing Lucius and Narcissa. A voice in his head, Snape namely, reminded him that this was his penance and must be undertaken. Weeks after the death, Harry was still reeling. He had yet to return to classes.

He begins down the path and all too quickly arrives at the front door. It opens before he can reach his hand up to knock. A house elf guides him inside and seats him in the formal sitting room. Many people seem to be gathered outside, from what he can see through the window, where the ceremony will take place. Harry wonders why the house elf has guided him here, and he stands from the settee as if a mistake has been made. 

Instead, he hears a door creak. Narcissa Malfoy enters the room and closes the door gently behind her. Harry figures if he’s going to die, if she kills him, he deserves every second of the pain that she will cause. 

“Mr. Potter.” She says grimly, indicating for him to sit down in the armchair across from her. He does so stiffly and uncomfortably. “I did not ask you here for an apology. So I will hear none of that, am I clear?” 

“But–” Harry begins, and Narcissa waves her hand angrily. 

“I will hear _none_ of that.” 

He gulps, nodding at the woman in front of him. She looks menacing, but well put together. Her face bore signs of grief, though, that Harry could tell. 

“My son admired you more than you could have ever known, Mr. Potter.” Narcissa admitted. 

He doesn’t quite know what to say and opts for, “You can call me Harry.” 

“Alright…Harry,” She tests, “I had spoken to Severus, and he informed me of what occurred weeks ago. While I cannot and will not speak on behalf of my husband, I can truthfully say that I do not blame you.” 

Harry breaks his gaze from his shoes and looks into her eyes. They are so much like Draco’s; Harry’s heart begins to pound. “I-uh, I appreciate that.” He steadies, finding his voice, owing Draco’s mother the respect of an even tone. “If I could change everything, I would in a heartbeat.” 

“I know you would.” She offers a smile, albeit weak, but genuine. “Alas, we are witness to Draco’s fate already.” 

Harry swallows, clasping his hands together. It is clear that he’s distressed. Narcissa moves forward and takes his hand in hers; Harry almost jumps out of his skin when she does. 

“Harry, I know this may be a strange request, but I was hoping I could ask you for a favor?” 

He nods, attempting to move his hands, but she grips him tighter. “Promise me you won’t forget him, Draco–I mean.” 

Harry finds himself blinking away tears, and Narcissa does the same. He knows what she poses is not a question. She removes a handkerchief from her coat and offers it to him. 

“I promise Mrs. Malfoy, I really do.” Harry bows his head. 

“You two were destined to be mortal enemies, Harry. But there was always a fire inside of both of you for one another.” She took a breath, breathing back tears that Harry could see were already threatening to displace her makeup, “I’m just – I’m glad you held him in the end. That’s all.” 

Harry tries to hold himself back, but he finds himself unable to and wraps his arms around her then and there. They cry together. He wants to get on his knees and apologize to her until he has no voice left at all. But he knows the best he can do for Narcissa is to keep her promise. Harry already knows he will. 

The ceremony is short and relatively emotionless. Lucius stiffens at the sight of Harry but sits through the ordeal and promptly apparates away seconds after it finishes. Draco’s friends, namely Parkinson and Zabini, appear as though they are going to shoot an Unforgiveable at him on sight. Harry does not blame any of them. Snape, surprisingly, sits next to him throughout the service though they do not speak one word. Their silent understanding is enough to quell Harry’s nerves, even if just a bit. He is still surprised by Narcissa’s unexpected kindness, and he wishes he had been able to meet _that_ side of Draco. He knew it was there somewhere, underneath all the other bullshit that plagued their lives. But Harry could tell already that Draco would always be more like Narcissa than Lucius, and he loved him more for it every day. 

After the ceremony, Harry entered the house in preparation to leave but found himself wandering aimlessly through some of the halls. It was easy to imagine why Draco had grown up in the way that he did. Especially when much of his childhood had been tied to a house like this. It wasn’t warm or comforting in the way that The Burrow was. It was intimidating and shockingly bare. He would have imagined garish light fixtures and ornate decorations to adorn the inside of the Manor but found that there was just an immense amount of blank space. 

Harry reaches a door that is partly open and catches a flash of something blonde. It could have been Lucius, and he would have signed his death certificate by confronting the man, but he's too curious to let it go. Instead, he pushes open the dark wooden door and immediately realizes what room of the house he has entered. 

Draco’s room is minimal, similar to the rest of the house. What catches Harry’s eye is not the obnoxiously green bedspread or the sheer amount of books in the room that could easily rival Hermione’s collection. It is a portrait of medium size that hangs on the wall across from his bed. A blonde boy of maybe ten or eleven plays with a small dog in the frame. 

“Hello!” Young Draco gazes at him enthusiastically, as if he hasn't had a visitor in a while. Harry is surprised that his parents have not yet come by the portrait, though maybe he could understand why. 

Young Draco was all big blue eyes and warmth. Nothing like the Draco he knew at all. 

“My name’s Harry,” He introduces himself stiffly to the portrait. “Er - you don’t know me.” 

“It’s so very nice to meet you, Harry.” Portrait Draco says back, puffing his shoulders out dramatically. Pureblood kids are such a type, he chuckles to himself. 

“So, what are you doing in my room?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, really. Just poking around for some memories, I guess.” Harry remarks, sitting on a trunk by the edge of Draco’s bed and gazing up at the portrait. Viewing the picture is making his heart twist painfully in his chest. And even if the kid’s voice is several octaves higher than his Draco’s, it is the same voice nonetheless. 

“Ah, so you’re _snooping_ ,” Portrait Draco says crossly, “We’ll I’ll be reporting back to my father of course, and he’ll have something to say about this.” 

A genuine smile colors Harry’s features for the first time in a long time, “In another life, we would have been best friends Draco.” 

The portrait looks at him, confused, but smirks back, “We’re not in another life, though, are we?” 

“I guess we are not.” 

Harry finds the Manor empty when he emerges from Draco’s room. The Malfoy’s must have cleared the public quickly after the ceremony, which is understandable. Harry walks around back to Draco’s grave, where few bouquet’s of fresh flowers have been laid out. He sits down exhaustedly in front of the stone and feels overcome with emotion once more. He conjures a single Narcissus flower, otherwise considered as a daffodil, and places it gently on the grave.

“So you can have a piece of your mother with you when you go, well, wherever it is you go.” Harry says aloud to no one in particular. He imagines Draco’s spirit standing behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. That or maybe smacking him across the head for accidentally offing him in the Slytherin bathrooms. Probably a mix of both. 

It had been the blackest of days in Harry’s life for a while, but he would remember them forever. He promises himself that he'll grow from his losses, and Draco’s death will always mean something to him and to everyone else. He will not be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come say hello at my [tumblr](http://sunnyeclipses.tumblr.com/)!


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